


Brace Yourself

by nip-the-cat (venom_for_free), Sophie_skates_reads



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Otabek Altin, Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Bracelets, Fluff, Getting Together, Goat attacks, Goats really like Yuri, Help this is so soft who am I?, Love Confessions, M/M, Yes you read that right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:21:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29226900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venom_for_free/pseuds/nip-the-cat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophie_skates_reads/pseuds/Sophie_skates_reads
Summary: A tie-in fic for venom_for_free's fic, "Superfan," can be read as a standalone.After four failed attempts at telling his best friend that he's in love with him (yes, you heard him,four) Otabek is trying one last time. He's confessing to Yuri if it kills him-- and it just might.Or:Intense fluff of the likes I've rarely written. Consider yourself warned; there are cavities ahead. XD
Relationships: Otabek Altin & Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 16
Kudos: 67





	Brace Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> This is a tie-in fic for venom_for_free's fic, "Superfan!" This can be read as a stand-alone, but I highly recommend reading Venom's bigger work, which incorporates _tons_ of visual and literary Otayuri content! I had so much fun working on this project, and I'm so grateful to be a part of it! ♥
> 
> A _huge_ thank you to Venom and especially Tae for the last-minute beta work; this would be pretty much unreadable without their help. XD

_Nagoya._

_Vancouver._

_Pyeongchang._

_Turin._

_Barcelona._

Five cities. Five attempted dates. And five near-misses on telling his best friend he was ~~maybe, completely, entirely~~ desperately in love with him. But that wouldn’t happen this time. No, Otabek had it all planned out: there was a destination in mind, a goal to actualize, a literal bulleted _itinerary_ to adhere to. And, however it went, Otabek had finally worked up the courage to confess.  
He just hoped, somewhat wistfully, that Yuri wouldn’t rip his head off when he did so.

(He hoped, even _more_ wistfully, that Yuri would reciprocate, but he had a strong feeling that the only way he’d be able to force the words out would be if he was complete in his delusion that Yuri loved him, too. So he was trying to not make the eventuality seem improbable, even in his own brain.)

He’d been working up to this for years, had come prepared for Montreal. Otabek had checked out all the best places to fall in love online, just like he had with Barcelona and every city ever since. Still, something always got in the way: something interfered and sent Otabek’s careful online scouting tumbling down the drain.

In Nagoya, he’d taken Yuri to Tokugawa Garden, guided him through the winding mazes of foliage and scenery to the lakefront where he’d planned to confess. But then Yuri had, in some strange turn of events, fallen off the small bridge they’d stood on, flailing and screaming down into the four feet of water below, and they’d gotten kicked out because swimming was _strictly_ prohibited. The attempt had been abandoned immediately afterward; Yuri was in _no_ mood for romance while he wore sopping wet pants.

In Vancouver, they’d gone to the Seawall, and despite the sunset being perfect along the horizon and the small bouquet of flowers whose thorns were stabbing Otabek from where they were hidden within his leather jacket, romance had been forsaken there, too. Yuri was far too interested in making the Instagram comparison between this Seawall and Hasetsu’s to be receptive to Otabek’s many fumbling attempts at flirting.

And then there had been Pyeongchang, but the entirety of the internet had seen that.

Turin, when Otabek had been so _sure_ he would manage to confess—he’d booked tickets to Borgo Medievale and Parco del Valentino—but arrived at the hotel just in time to catch a delirious Yuri who, Otabek learned, was sick with the flu and in no condition to leave the room they shared. Shockingly, Yuri still medalled at the competition they had been there for. It was bronze, granted, but anything was impressive when, hours before, Otabek had borne witness to the delirium which compelled Yuri to sing Panic! At The Disco’s “Mona Lisa'' endlessly, despite him just about losing his voice. And, later, had been a victim of the energy crash which resulted in Otabek, with a sick and fluid-leaking Yuri on his chest, lying perfectly still on the bed, probably enjoying the physical contact more than was either moral or healthy when Yuri was A) extremely ill, and B) dead asleep on his human-sized pillow. 

And finally, preceding each failure, was Barcelona.

But this time was different. Montreal was _foolproof,_ not another aborted try to add to his depressingly long list. Otabek, if it _killed him,_ was going to tell Yuri he loved him. Once and for all.

But tomorrow, because he was too scared tonight.

***

“Yura!” Otabek cornered him after practice, aiming to use the few hour window between when their ice time ended and the free program began to, hopefully, talk him into visiting a bridge Otabek had found the next day.

Yuri jumped, nose flying up from where it had been buried in his phone, and looked cautiously over his shoulder. 

Otabek knew Yuri was stressed out of his mind, behind after the short program by four points, and, on hearing his name called, was probably just relieved that it had been Otabek and not another vulture-like reporter doing the calling. Still, though, it might have just been Otabek losing his mind, but the warm look Yuri gave him upon recognition seemed almost _too_ fond. Sometimes Otabek almost thought… but they were just thoughts and they were only almost, so who knew, really? Otabek had never claimed to be good at people-ing, and, while he knew Yuri better than he knew anyone else (himself included), he didn’t trust his own judgment enough on a matter so volatile, so important to their friendship, to make a spur-of-the-moment decision.

“Hey,” Yuri stowed his phone in his skate bag where it hung off one shoulder and trotted over.“What’s up?”

“Can I talk to you for a second?” 

Yuri quirked a brow and nodded, looking vaguely curious as Otabek steered him away from the throng of people still in the hall. His inquisitive, relaxed expression faded, though, when a telltale buzz resonated from within the pocket in which his cellphone resided. Within seconds, he was staring at it again, typing rapidly, and the tension that had formerly been absent was again filling his body. He’d always taken competitions seriously, had always been painfully aware that the winnings were crucial for his family, but this was World’s, and if Yuri won this, he’d be two years younger than Victor was when he’d won his first. The pressure was on, and, Otabek didn’t doubt, Yuri was feeling it more keenly than he ever had.

Otabek stopped once he deemed them satisfactorily isolated, took his hand off Yuri’s shoulder from when he’d been dragging him through the hallways, and waited for Yuri to finish whatever text he was working on.

“Hmm?” After a moment, Yuri looked up from his phone, blinking and frowning slightly as he registered their surroundings. “Sorry, Beka. What did you say?”

“Um,” _smooth, dude. Really, great job._ “I was thinking—tomorrow, after the exhibition, there’s this really cool pl—”

“Yuri Plisetsky!” 

Otabek and Yuri whipped around and were faced with, strange among the darkened doorways and abandoned maintenance signs, Lilia Baranovskaya. She strutted up to them with all the purpose of a mother about to scold her toddler for eating sand or a coach about to harp on her teenager’s performance, the shadows seeming to bend out of her way as she came.

Yuri blinked, eyes bugging slightly. 

“Come with me.” She wasted no time on formalities. “Your arms were abysmal during practice; we have notes to review.” And she marched away, leaving Yuri gaping in her wake.

“Fucking tyrant,” he muttered, though quietly enough that there was no risk of being overheard. At a snap of her fingers, though, he glanced over his shoulder to where Lilia stood by the doorway, before turning and looking hopelessly back at Otabek.

“It can wait.” Otabek waved his hand dismissively, sending Yuri a minute smile. “Go. Make sure your arms don’t fall off before you skate.”

Yuri flashed a grin, already hurrying back towards where his coach waited. “You’re the best, Beka!”

_The best, huh?_ Otabek slumped against the wall once Yuri and Lilia disappeared from view. _I hope tomorrow doesn’t change your mind._

***

Yuri had been released, bedraggled and looking like a cat that dragged something particularly disgusting in and was later punished for it, from the confines of Lilia’s hotel room forty-five minutes later. He slumped into his and Otabek’s room as soon as the door was opened and collapsed onto the bed. Letting out a long, loud groan, Yuri’s body relaxed where he lay face-down on the comforter, the stress-induced tension unfurling from his tightly-coiled muscles. 

“Fun meeting?” Otabek guessed and dodged the retaliatory pillow lobbed at his head. For someone with his field of vision obstructed by covers, Yuri had remarkable aim.

“My arms might _actually_ fall off,” Yuri whined, pushing himself up—bravely, he evidently thought—and promptly collapsing back against the pillows, his head tilted so he could now peer sideways at Otabek. “She made me go over the program _fifteen times,_ Beka! Only the arms! It never occurred to me, but I swear to god, it’s _hard_ to only do the arms.”

Otabek hummed noncommittally. He sympathized with Yuri, though he couldn’t say he wasn’t intensely relieved that Lilia was his friend’s coach and not his own. And Yuri worked well with her. Most of the time.

Not, it seemed, when his arms were wrong.

“Bekaaaa,” Yuri groaned, eyes shut once again and head tilted back for maximum whining effect.

“Yes?” 

“Entertain me,” he demanded. Then, after a moment in which a singular eyebrow was raised, “Please.”

Otabek released a drawn-out, long-suffering sigh, before promptly changing tack and whipping a pillow back at Yuri. It landed with a decisive _whump_ because two could play at this game. “Fineee,” he drawled and basked in the glory that was Yuri’s responsive shudder. Otabek never spoke like that, so it was fun to unnerve Yuri with it. 

Yuri rolled his eyes. “Please, Beka? We could do something and you could tell me that thing you mentioned?”

Otabek shrugged. “I _guess_ so.”

“Beka, stop that—”

“If I _must.”_

“You ass. Just—”

“It pains me, but I _suppose_ I can suffer your company a while longer.”

A third fluffy projectile hit its mark, and Otabek laughed, the sound muffled.

***

They ended up going to a cafe Otabek found in the shopping district when he’d researched Centre-Bell. The store was small but homey, and Otabek delighted in the way Yuri seemed to lose ten pounds of weight off his shoulders when he stepped through the door. He’d wanted to calm his friend down, and evidently, he’d been correct in thinking this a good way to do it.

They wandered over to a small table in front of the window, sun shining through the glass and illuminating Yuri’s hair in a halo. Otabek was hard-pressed not to confess right then and there. But then a waitress came over, and the moment was broken.

She took their orders, and they spent several minutes chatting about nothing, Otabek working his nerve up to ask Yuri to the bridge, the following night. His anxiety over the matter was ridiculous; he didn’t know _why_ he was so afraid when, as far as Yuri knew, he was only suggesting another sightseeing location. Except Otabek, unlike Yuri, knew there was more to it than that, and for _some_ reason, the bridge invitation and the love confession were inexplicably linked in his mind, the positive reception of one dependent upon the positive reception of the other.

“Beka?”

“Yeah?” Otabek looked up from the swirling depths of his coffee to find Yuri staring at him, confusion and slight amusement painting his face. 

“You okay there?” Yuri nodded toward Otabek’s hand. “You look like you want to murder the cup and its entire family. So, just a normal Tuesday, but normally you’re not as homicidal in the afternoon. I thought there might be something wrong.” An unsuppressed smirk tugged at his lips.

Otabek rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. I was plotting my revenge on the coffee; it burned my tongue when I took a sip, so now it must pay.” Yuri snorted and Otabek smiled. “No, I was just thinking. I was telling you earlier that I found this really cool place near—” 

Yuri’s phone began to ring.

He looked at it and groaned. “Hold that thought,” he muttered, before speaking into the phone. _“What?_ Is Lilia going to make me redo the arms again? Because _I swear to god,_ Ya—” He paused, listening dispiritedly. “Ugh. Fine. See you soon.” He hung up, pouting.

“What is it?” Otabek asked, though he could hazard a guess.

“Yakov’s making me go back to the stupid rink because, _apparently,_ there is practice time I didn’t know about, and I have to get my ass over there right the fuck now or else I forfeit World’s.” He said it lightly, sarcastically, accompanied by his signature scowl, but Otabek could see the lingering anxiety beneath the statement, the reason Yuri had agreed to return so easily.

“Want a ride?” Otabek asked instead of prying.

Yuri shook his head. “Nah, the old man and the pig have been sent to stalk me or whatever, so they’re picking me up.”

Otabek nodded and started to gather his things as he rose from his chair.

“What are you doing?” Yuri squinted at him.

“Getting ready to go…?”

“Oh, no.” Yuri shook his head vehemently, waving his hands in a universal _hell no_ gesture. “I’m not dragging you back to be miserable at the rink with me. You’re going to stay here and actually _enjoy_ your time in Montreal—do it for the both of us.”

Otabek wasn’t about to point out that he had absolutely _zero_ interest in sightseeing without Yuri as a companion, but he frowned all the same. “I don’t mind, Yura.”

“Yeah,” Yuri tilted his head, “but I do. I’m not fucking up your tourist time just for the fun of it. Stay here, drink my coffee for me, and I’ll see you at the rink in an hour for the evening practice, okay?”

Otabek sighed. “Okay.”

A horn honked outside and Yuri glanced over his shoulder, cringing deeply when he saw the bright pink convertible waiting in front of the cafe. “Bye.”

He leaned in for a hug, waiting for Otabek’s, “Bye,” before running out the door.

Otabek smiled slightly as he watched Yuri vault over the top of the convertible into the back seat, reclining regally with the top down despite it being March in Canada and the temperature couldn’t have been more than 4 degrees. He shook his head; he was _so_ gone on that boy.

***

Otabek didn’t leave too long after Yuri’s departure. He finished his coffee and brought Yuri’s along in a take-away cup for practice later, assuming that Yuri would need some form of caffeine in his system to survive the rest of the day. As he considered it, meandering down the path of the highstreet, gazing into storefronts with half a mind, he realized he should probably hurry and get back to his bike-- the session would be starting soon. But then he saw it, glittering in the window of a store, and practice be damned, he had to get it.

It wasn’t anything flashy: not really Yuri’s style, now that Otabek overthought it. It was only a small thing, a bracelet, gold and adorned with a tiger’s head charm and a tiny, sculpted leaf on which initials or particularly succinct messages could be written. And yet, as Otabek walked by, just barely catching a glimpse of it on display, he hadn’t been able to resist. It called to him, as ridiculous and cliche as it sounded; it embodied all that was _Yuri_ in the perfect, subtle chain link which wouldn’t get in the way on the ice and the unblemished gold it had been created from.

With this, maybe, Otabek would finally work up the courage to tell his best friend he was in love with him, to take him to the bridge at dusk, their outlines painted in golden, fading light, and kiss him the way he’d wanted to for so long. 

Or it would make a great birthday present in a few days.

That worked, too.

***

“Yura.” Yuri looked up, eyes wide and lips tight, from his place at the boards, his right hand gripping his skate guards as he watched Katsuki leave the ice. “Calm down.”

He had enough spunk left to roll his eyes and mutter a weak, “I am calm,” that both he and Otabek ignored.

Otabek moved closer to him and gently pried his hand off the boards to lightly massage the whitened knuckles. “You’ll be amazing,” he vowed, solemn as he stared into Yuri’s panicky eyes. “You always are. And if not,” he tilted his head slightly, a smile playing on his lips, “that’s what crowbars are for.”

That earned him a startled laugh, and Yuri shook his head, looking marginally calmer. “Thanks, Beka,” he muttered, and despite Yakov standing right next to him, gesturing impatiently for him to get on the ice, Yuri surged forward, squeezing Otabek around the chest before launching himself onto the rink.

Approximately seven minutes later, Otabek grinned and shook his head as Yuri leaped into his arms, screaming and delighted, not even minding that his best friend had beaten him.

***

The next day was warm for March. Canada was, in general, a less than tropical place but during that specific time of the year, it was especially unusual to have striking sunshine all day. Which was, Otabek figured, too bad since he and Yuri were cooped up inside the rink.

The last day of World’s had arrived more quickly than they expected. Competitions were always demanding, but this one in particular left them with a lot of time on the ice and in their heads, but barely a moment for the two of them. They had been too preoccupied in the end, Yuri desperate to win and Otabek desperate to ease his friend’s troubled mind. But today, Otabek decided to make the time to be together.

Because today was the day, highlighted and circled borderline-aggressively within his itinerary, that confessions would be made. And, if all went well, a new romance would be formed.

Sure, Otabek couldn’t run off immediately to go prepare the most romantic picnic the world had ever seen because he and Yuri still had obligations, but… he had a plan. And, honestly, he thought it might have been better that way. After the romantic, mountainside picnic Otabek had attempted while they were in Pyeongchang for the Olympics, Yuri probably didn’t want to sit on a grassy slope to eat finger foods ever again. But, in his defense, Otabek had thought the Daegwallyeong Sheep Farm had sounded fun when he’d booked the tickets! How was he to know that, barely five minutes after getting within range of the animals on the (picturesque, granted) mountainside, a stray goat would take a liking to Yuri? Or that, within thirty seconds of the goat’s infatuation, Yuri would be halfway up a tree several meters away, the goat trotting excitedly around its base? Maybe he _should_ have known that Yuri wouldn’t appreciate his laughter, but, really, what else was he to do in that scenario?

No, there would be no picnics, no goats (hopefully; they really _did_ like Yuri), but there would be romance, atmospheric lighting, a gentle buttering up of Yuri, and a gradual build up to a declaration of love. (Of love? That felt more drastic now that the event loomed only hours away. Maybe a declaration of excessive-like would be better?)

Otabek glanced at the rink clock, fighting the urge to say screw it and drag Yuri away from their tedious coaches, kidnapping him the way he once had, to an idyllic, secluded location where they could be alone together.

Which was why, funnily enough, Otabek _couldn’t_ drag Yuri out of the rink, away to the bridge he’d deemed perfect for their (anticipated) first kiss. Because it was 4 pm and the bridge would be flooded with foot traffic, destroying any hope of intimacy on the crowded pavement. He had to wait until tonight, after the exhibition but before the gala, to make his move. 

If only it wasn’t so incredibly _hard,_ watching Yuri execute spin after flawless spin, a vision in black workout clothing with a faint pink flush on his cheeks. “Beka!” He called, emerging from a perfect Biellman like a swan and throwing himself across the ice with such momentum, it probably made the sharp, sudden movement dangerous. He neared Otabek, who stood with a water bottle gripped perhaps a bit too tightly in his palm, though he let go when he registered that his hand was wet.

Ah, well then.

“Wanna see who can do the best quad Sal?” Yuri asked, cocking an eyebrow with all the arrogance of a winner and the playfulness of a teenager in eternal competition with his best friend. “I bet mine is higher.” And he skated off, looking over his shoulder and sticking out his tongue, taunting Otabek before he went into an elegant Salchow, the four rotations in the air pristine.

Otabek set his water bottle back in his bag, wiped his hand on his discarded glove, and took off to where Yuri stood in the center of the ice.

Oh, it was _on._

***

“Not as spectacular as ‘Welcome to the Madness’,” Otabek mused, thumbing his chin in mock contemplation as Yuri came off the ice, backed by the roars of the crowd and low lighting.

“Shut up.” Yuri smacked his arm lightly before taking the skate guards he was handed. “You’re just jealous you weren’t in this one.”

“True.” Otabek nodded and took a long, starlit moment to glory in Yuri’s grin. “Hey,” he caught Yuri’s forearm as he made to walk off, likely assuming Otabek would follow, “will you meet me at that bridge we passed earlier, before the gala? Around 6:30? It’s important.”

Yuri’s eyebrows furrowed but he nodded. “Yeah, of course. Beka, what’s—” But Otabek was already walking away, heart hammering in his chest as he filed away the image of Yuri’s smile, so open and free.  
Who knew—it might have been the last time he’d get to see it.

***

Otabek, despite being prepared ten thousand times over, couldn’t seem to calm his heart as he made his way down the road. Darkness had fallen, killing his plan to confess at dusk, shrouded in the warm, golden hues of a sunset tinged pink. But, as Otabek approached the bridge, he came around to the idea of a starlit moment. 

Yuri stood there, elbows on the railing, looking out over the water, at the peak of the bridge, ethereal and painted pale in the moonlight. He was fae-like; beautiful, strong-willed, and invincible. Yet he also embodied the innocence of a teen; sharp-tongued, venom-spitting, and _so_ soft when he wanted to be. But neither analogy was quite right.

Because Yuri looked like a soldier on that bridge. People loved to compare him to an angel, but he was neither only good nor bad. Yuri had multitudes embedded into him like the stardust in his hair and the forest in his eyes. For a moment, Otabek paused his approach just to breathe and marvel at the beauty that was his best friend. He tightened his hand around the bracelet in his pocket that meant so much more than _friendship._ Still, though, he thought it to be the perfect gift. With decisive steps, he approached the man he wanted to spend his future with.

“Hey,” he murmured as he stepped up to the railing to stand beside Yuri, looking out across the gently rippling water.

“Hey,” Yuri turned his head to look at Otabek, the vaguest lines of worry on his face. “What’s up? You wanted to meet?”

Otabek took a deep breath and fingered the inner pocket of the leather jacket he’d refused to abandon, despite it being bitterly cold with the wind from the water whipping over their faces. “Yeah,” he said at length.

“… And?” Yuri asked, raising both eyebrows. “Don’t tell me this is some sort of weird murder/suicide thing, Beka. I’m not dressed to die.” The joke fell flat, but Yuri’s discomfort, strangely, grounded Otabek.

“No.” He shook his head ever so slightly, the tiny smile only Yuri could inspire on his lips. “But I did want to talk to you about something.”

“Okay.” Yuri nodded. “Shoot.”

_Shoot, indeed,_ Otabek’s mind murmured, helpfully. _I wish people talked about how **hard** it was to shoot your shot. _“I got you this.” Otabek pulled the small, velvet box the bracelet was concealed in from inside his jacket and held it out.

Yuri opened it, a furrow between his eyebrows but a small smile on his face, and inhaled as he pulled the delicate chain out, the tiger pendant glinting in the moonlight. “It’s beautiful, Beka,” he said, smiling, and Otabek helped him put it on when he held out his wrist. “What is it, a birthday present? You didn’t have to.”

“No.” Otabek shook his head. “Look at the leaf.”

Frowning slightly, Yuri examined the bracelet in greater detail, finding the small golden leaf next to the tiger pendant and flipping it over. He squinted in the dim lighting. Then let out a tiny gasp; looking up, he searched Otabek’s face. “Beka,” he breathed, “Is this—? OA+YP? What does this mean?”

Otabek took a breath and slowly, carefully, took Yuri’s hands in his own. This was it. “I love you, Yura. I always have, and I—I think you feel the same.”

Yuri’s eyes were full of starlight as he stared at Otabek, the moon held in his irises and shining with the brightness of the night sky. And, slowly, he smiled.

They stayed on the bridge for a long time after that, probably longer than was healthy or reasonable on the frigid evening, but neither of them cared. They had other things to keep them warm.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel so soft after writing this... ew. xD. This was really interesting to write, though; the vast majority of my works are angsty, so challenging myself to write something that _won't_ make people cry was a lot of fun!
> 
> If you enjoyed this, comments and kudos are the food on which authors live! 
> 
> My [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SophieParrish13)


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